Decimate

by D. Fischer

  When the midday meal comes, consisting of berries and nuts known only to this region, I take my wooden bowl with a nod of thanks to the female elf who withers in my presence, and snack on the food while observing Wisa. He’s formidable though thin and lean as a string bean which makes his nose seem longer and more pointed. He’s graceful, each movement swift and sharp but precise just the same. Even more so than Jaemes. Strength matters not when you’re as stealthy and keen as a cat. His sharp eyes display that he, too, is discretely sizing up the visitors to his village. And even though his hospitality is grand and courteous, it’s always best to know the weaknesses of your friends.

  I tune in to the conversation, popping a berry in my mouth and savoring the flavor as it slicks across my tongue. The berry’s outer layer is shelled with a cinnamon flavored coating which must be dissolved to receive the berry’s juices. And when the layer is gone, a burst of flavor explodes in my mouth, accented by the spice.

  “The warriors who returned told me tales of the alliance between the remaining loyal angels and our kind. Tell me, Jaemes. Is it all true?”

  I bristle. He had let go of their native tongue in favor of me hearing the conversation.

  “It is,” Jaemes says, setting down his bowl next to his hip. He unfurls his legs out from a cross-legged position and leans back, propping his torso up with his arms behind him.

  Wisa purses his lips and considers his response, flexing and unflexing his toes. Did he believe this truth to be false? Perhaps he hoped it was.

  Before the battle on the Angel’s Ground, the angels and the elves who had joined and fought together did not get along. At first, Erma had tried to get them to see reason, but eventually, Jaemes had to step in. He united the two enemy races in a way any general on the Earth Realm would be proud of. They listened to him, and I wonder if Wisa envies this born skill to lead.

  My heart pangs at the thought of Erma, and a knot forms in my throat, but I swallow hard against it, turning to grab my makeshift cup of water from the window’s ledge. Extracting it from a string of web, I take a sip, and the cold water banishes the warm liquid threatening to spill over.

  “Many would not have been lost if you would have sent more warriors, Wisa,” Jaemes charges, and pride swells with a sly grin on my cheeks. I tuck it away by popping another berry in my mouth accompanied by a nut.

  “It wasn’t our fight to win, Jaemes,” Wisa retorts nonchalantly.

  “Did you not believe there’d be consequences if fallen angels, and those who led them, would have taken over this realm?”

  “Those who led them?” Wisa repeats, spitting the words. “Speak clearly, young one.”

  I bite fiercely into the berry before the outer layer had time to melt in my mouth. The layer splinters in my mouth and the taste of my blood accompanies the juices. Jaemes doesn’t like to be reminded of his age, and with his back to me, I envision his stony glare to the response. In my head, I silently chant for him to remain professional, to not whip his sarcasm around the hut like he would with me.

  “Did you know my village is calling it The Battle of Disgrace?” Jaemes draws in a deep voice, pausing for dramatic effect as though the title of disgrace belongs to Wisa as well. “Those disgraces were led by Kheelan, Sureen, but mainly, Corbin. How do you think that would have ended, wise one?”

  Hostility fills the air at Jaemes’s disrespectful tone. Keeping my face under control, I subtly lean against the window’s ledge and carefully observe the two.

  “I see you have your father’s arrogance,” Wisa finally speaks.

  “And so, so much more,” Jaemes drawls slowly, plucking a spot of fuzz that had settled on his shoulder.

  “I see,” Wisa mumbles. He leans back, matching Jaemes’s position, and twists his lips to the thoughts churning in his head. “While I acknowledge your late father’s decree, I do not agree with it. Someone so young and arrogant cannot be the council leader of all tribes. You’re inexperienced and impulsive because of it. I will not allow this to come to pass.”

  Jaemes leans forward. “I suppose this means we’ll be fighting to the death today?”

  “I suppose it does.”

  Wisa barks, the sound like that of a wild boar, at the remaining elves outside the hut, and they shuffle in, taking our bowls from our outstretched hands. No further discussion is to be had, and we’re filed from the room, around the outside ledge acting as a porch, and across the high protruding roots. We cross the porch of another hut, then another, until Wisa turns and faces the dwarves, Sandy, and me. He holds up a hand and blinks.

  “This is where you stay.” His tone is a warning. Whether to not interfere or to make it clear I’m not in charge here, I don’t know, but I do as he says while ensuring he sees my glare of disapproval.

  “You just had to be an arrogant ass, didn’t you,” I whisper grudgingly to him.

  We’re at the very center of the village now, and Sandy and I exchange a look of worry when Wisa turns his back to me. Prepared to obey him, I feel my wings twitching nervously, I pull at my fingers, pinching the nailbeds.

  Jaemes and Wisa descend a nearby ladder swaying precariously. The village conversation hushes, and many gather around the huts’ porches, watching below with interest.

  Once on the ground, Jaemes and Wisa walk a few strides to the center of the smallest of clearings. I hadn’t even noticed it when we came in. It can’t be more than ten feet in diameter. In this area, the ground had been cleared of nature and debris, leaving the thick black tree trunks to act as a barrier and the packed dirt as a platform.

  “They’re going to challenge each other right here?” Sandy asks with an emotionless voice, watching as Jaemes and Wisa are handed sharpened, gleaming axes with designs carved along the handles. These are their weapons of war as well as harvest, except they have much more worn and well-used axes to cut down the trees than the intimidating ones clutched in their grips. These ones, with the glimmering gold marks etched under their grips, are meant specifically for war.

  Lifting his bow and quiver over his shoulder, Jaemes passes it to a lingering nearby elf leaning against one of the trees. He pauses in the center of the clearing, and after a moment of hesitation, he looks up to me. Swallowing, I nod and tightly smile. He can do this. I know he can. Compared to Wisa, he has youth on his side. And if he fails . . . well, I can’t think about that.

  My nod is enough of a response for him, and he returns the gesture before raising his weapon and touching the sharp blade with the pad of his index finger. He taps his pointer finger and thumb together, smearing away the beading black blood from the fresh slice into his flesh.

  “It would appear so,” I mumble with an unease settling in my stomach. This feels so wrong. All of this does. For as long as this tradition has been alive, our mental capacity and morals should be beyond bloodshed.

  Jaemes and Wisa step toward one another, and my heart lurches. Instead of swinging as I had expected, they embrace, touching their foreheads to one another and murmuring words I can’t hear from here. Jaemes nods back to whatever is being said or advised while twisting the axe in his palm dangling at his side.

  “Here we go,” Nally whispers to Cod and Blu. “This is truly an adventure.” With a detached distaste, I observe the back of his head. He and his dwarf kin are watching on their hands and knees, getting the full bird’s eye view. I don’t bother to tell them the way they’re dangling over the edge could very well be their end if a strong gale comes along. They’re wise creatures. I’m sure they’ve already weighed the cost of a better view versus an accidental fall.

  Jaemes and Wisa back up from one another and begin circling the outer edges, observing how the other moves, how their minds work, and the subtle changes in shifts of weight.

  The two adjust whenever the other does, a dance of sorts. Wisa moves his axe to the other hand, and Jaemes responds in kind. One slides to left, and the other creeps to the right. With a sneer further tipping his hooked nose, the tribe leader rushes f
orward with a prolonged shout meant to intimidate, axe raised. The blade glints twice upon descent, but Jaemes blocks the blow with his own. No sound comes from Jaemes though Wisa grunts and groans. Through the axes joined wooden handles, his muscles quiver, strained with the force of Wisa’s weight continuing to press against him.

  Swiftly lifting his leg, Jaemes kicks forward. His foot connects with Wisa’s torso, and the Yoki leader stumbles back, turns, and tries to strike again. Braid swinging, Jaemes gracefully hops out of the way, and Wisa’s axe thuds into the dirt. He twirls to Wisa’s back, slicing along the scrawny leader’s calf. Wisa grunts and whirls to face him, blood spraying from the fresh but shallow wound.

  I tuck my arms tighter around my middle and listen to Sandy’s shallow breathing, using it to focus my own, to remember to actually inhale and exhale.

  “This will only end in death,” Sandy cautions.

  “It is their way,” I respond.

  Cloudy eyes squint in disapproval. “Must everything end in blood?”

  I purse my lips, taking my attention off of the brawl to fully meet his gaze. “Yes, but it is my hope that someday, we can change that. Jaemes wants to make a difference, but he’s held back by the traditional ways of his people. Only time will tell how he rules.”

  Sandy turns back to the fight. “If he rules,” he whispers.

  “Yes.”

  I straighten my spine, refusing to believe this will be Jaemes’s end when his grunt sends a shock through my body. I take a shuffle forward, mindful of the ledge, and watch as Jaemes grips his upper torso. Black blood seeps from the injury, and a shuddered breath escapes my lips as though it were possible for me to feel the pain myself. Removing his hand, he tucks his chin to examine the wound. It’s not deep, but it’s enough to cause several trails of blood down his taut abdomen.

  “If,” the sandman mumbles.

  Jaemes’s head tips back and his gaze returns to Wisa. A look crosses his face, dark and dangerous, his jaw flexed to a square, causing his lips to firmly pucker.

  “Look!” Nally points, directing his thick index finger to Wisa. I follow his demand, and upon observation, view Wisa’s already healed wound. A faint pink line is all that is left. I breathe, sighing in relief. Stretching my neck and rolling my shoulders, I focus on centering the thud in my heart pounding at the bones in my wrist. I massage it with my other hand, willing it so. Jaemes can’t die. He won’t die. I need him.

  Jaemes’s wound will heal too, I remind myself.

  Furious, Jaemes rushes forward, and Wisa responds in kind. He throws the axe, and it soars through the air, blade over handle. At the last split-second, Wisa ducks. The weapon sticks to our tree’s bark, thudding and cracking the wood with a loud boom. The hut shudders behind me, shaking loose strands of dead grass and raining chunks of dirt.

  Wisa swings. Jaemes ducks. He swings again, and this time, Jaemes catches Wisa’s arm and twists. The scrawny leader cries out in shock, and the axe drops to the packed soil. Both weaponless, my friend takes advantage. Thrusting his arm back, he throws all of his weight into a punch, connecting with a hooked nose. Wisa doesn’t cry out this time. He doesn’t have time to.

  Bloody knuckled, Jaemes punches again. The crack of bone against bone reaches my ears. Together, Sandy and I cringe, our shoulders bunching to our ears.

  Staggering, Wisa clutches his face and then cracks his nose back into place. The dwarves’ awe at the lack of pain, and I sneer toward their backs. This isn’t fun and games. This isn’t adventure. This is life or death.

  Jaemes rushes, and upon doing so, jumps in the air, twirls with an extended leg, and connects to Wisa’s jaw with the heel of his foot. Wisa staggers to the side, ducks, and then spins, avoiding Jaemes’s punch to the thigh.

  “I was hoping this would be quick,” Sandy mutters. “It’s getting difficult to watch.”

  I ignore him and his constant mutterings, wincing as Wisa’s elbow connects with Jaemes’s healing gash. The blow reopens the wound, exposing his flesh once more, and Jaemes buckles over. With the easy access, Jaemes provides in his position, Wisa’s knee crunches into Jaemes’s face.

  Jaemes flies backward, landing on his back in the dirt. The crowd of elves begin a fevered whisper that crawls over my skin and raises goosebumps to every fine hair.

  “Get up!” I yell, and the watchers’ eyes focus on me for a moment. “Up!”

  Dazed, Jaemes swipes at his eyes, possibly to clear the speckled stars dancing in his vision. The sneering hooked-nosed elf takes no chances. He doesn’t allow his opponent a moment of recovery. Grabbing his dropped axe, he rushes forward, weapon raised.

  “No!” I shout, my world slowing as the scene unfolds.

  The axe lowers, and at the last second, Jaemes focuses on the attack, shoving his head to the side and narrowly missing the blade. The axe buries in the dirt above his shoulder. He rolls, then spins along the soil. Lashing out, he kicks Wisa’s feet out from under him and jumps to his feet quickly after. Wisa’s head hits the dirt with a crack, and Sandy visibly flinches, whirling away with his eyes tightly shut.

  Jaemes grabs the axe, raises it, and swings down. I stop breathing. I painfully squeeze my wrist. I prepare for the final blow. Impossibly, he stops the swing at Wisa’s neck, the sharp point only slightly buried in the skin.

  “Indeed, an adventure,” Nally mumbles, glancing at the two elves on either side of him. It takes an immense amount of strength and skill to stop a swinging axe the way Jaemes did.

  After controlling heaving breaths while hovering above his beaten opponent, Jaemes shouts to the wide-eyed Wisa. “Yield!”

  Wisa only blinks, and Jaemes repeats the word. Wiggling instinctively, the frightened leader freezes once more as Jaemes presses the axe further in, a threat. A few female elves cry out, their hands flying to cover their mouths.

  “Do you yield?” he growls to the beaten elf.

  We wait. We watch. When Wisa does or says nothing, Jaemes lowers his torso and whispers something to him. Whatever he says causes Wisa to peer at the crowd above him. My wings flutter agitated that I can’t hear whatever Jaemes is telling him. Is he begging? Threatening? A part of me desperately wants to know while the other part doesn’t want to get involved in any way.

  When the anticipation almost becomes too great, Wisa nods.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AIDEN VANDER

  EARTH REALM

  I’m afraid to lay with her. I’m afraid to touch her, to even breathe next to her. Instead, I find myself watching her, seated at the edge of the bed. With a hand tucked under the pillow, she snores softly. Her features, which are often firm with stress, are relaxed, and with her red hair haloing her head, she looks like a peaceful angel. Lately, my days are a blur, and the most she does is sleep. Perhaps sleep is her way of coping. I wish I had that kind of escape.

  The Cloven Pack has been nothing but welcoming until my little spat of losing control. Oddly, a few are more upset with Eliza than with me. I think they understand my inner nature, the consuming darkness that can get out of hand from time to time even after what I’d done to Katriane. We’re ruled by an internal beast when presented with danger or survival, especially for those we try to protect. It can overcome us.

  After the last vampire was dead, I hadn’t recognized Kat, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t frighten even myself. I hadn’t recognized Dyson and Eliza’s presence either, both bright lights in the sea of dark. All I remember is a consuming rage, a cold bitter darkness that gripped my every intention and desire to see the end of all of the threats that had surrounded me. It was so overpowering, and my actions weren’t my own. I blacked out, and something else had taken control. How can I protect Eliza when I can’t even control what I am? Is this the sort of mercy Fate discussed? I can’t imagine he didn’t want me to protect her at all, to be too scared of myself to do so. That’s not mercy. That’s weakness.

  I reach forward, wanting to stroke the strands of Eliza’s hair, and then yank
my arm back. I’m the beast. The monster. The very thing she needs protection from. Katriane could have just as easily been Eliza – it could have been Eliza I hurt, and she would have let me. Because she loves me. She isn’t safe with me, no matter how hard I try to keep her that way. No matter how many times I tell myself she is. This is the greatest mercy I could give.

  Standing swift and silently, I pace the floor. My steps are fluid as a ghost in a room, waiting, watching, pondering my past life and how I could have done things differently. I tug on my ears, the voices in my head too much, some screaming, some whispering, some crying. They echo in my skull, a reminder of where I’ve been and what I’ve done to survive, just for another look at this woman. They’re from the void, and each day, more are added to the mix. I can’t take it. I can’t. How am I supposed to live like this?

  Heat floods my face. Pain swirls in my gut. And with one last moment of longing for my sweet Eliza, I leave the quarters and sneak into the damp atmosphere. As soon as I’m outside, a torrential rain soaks my clothes, and my heating skin cools, steaming into the air. For several minutes, I breathe deep, holding my arms out to my sides and soaking in what it has to offer my raging weakness.

  Calmer than I was before, I turn, intent on heading back in to watch over Eliza while I consider what to do next when a light catches my gaze, beaming from a window on the first level of the back of the house. It’s still the wee hours of the morning and the sun won’t rise for another few. Frowning, I stalk toward it, my bare feet sloshing in the wet grass.

  As I get nearer, I slow my pace and consider whether my investigation would be seen as an intrusion, but I can’t imagine why anyone would be up this early. My thoughts wander to the worst, perhaps an intruder, with the vampire’s attack still fresh in my mind.

  My fingers curl around the cold, dripping knob, and with an inhale, I open the door.

  Music greets me, the room entirely soundproof until I broke the sound’s bouncing habits from one wall to the next. The beat slams against my chest, thudding against my heartbeat and spills into the rainy, quiet night. I flinch at the sudden change and blink rapidly to adjust my vision.